


Vaster Than Empires

by Mithen



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: First Time, M/M, Reunions, Stranded, offworld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-04
Updated: 2010-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Zeta beam gone wrong strands Clark and Bruce on an alien planet in the distant past where Bruce must pretend to be Clark's pleasure slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Arctic wind was tugging at Batman's cloak, making the fabric ripple and shift like dark water. His arms were crossed and his back was to Superman as he gazed out across the ice, apparently as oblivious to the bitter cold as he was to Superman himself.

"Adam Strange said the Zeta Beam would pick us up in this location in about...fifteen minutes," said Clark.

Batman grunted.

"You...don't have to go."

Another grunt.

"I mean, Adam did specifically ask for you and I to negotiate the treaty, but we could get someone else to take your place. I'm sure you've got a lot of catching up to do from..." Clark's voice failed for a second. "From your time away."

Batman didn't even bother to respond this time.

"It's...good to see you again, by the way. Everyone missed you." _I missed you_, he wanted to add, but the stiffness of Bruce's back made it difficult to say. It was their first time alone together since that instant on the battlefield, in the middle of the rout of the Kryptonian army. Clark remembered the moment every night in his dreams: on his knees before the triumphant General Lane. Lane lowering the Kryptonite gun, the green light gathering at the muzzle pointed at Clark's head...

The gun exploding into harmless sparks and splinters. The bit of metal that destroyed it coming to rest at Clark's feet, his disbelieving eyes tracing the familiar angles and lines of a batarang.

He had looked up to see Bruce charging in to drop General Lane with a vicious punch to the jaw. Bruce had reached out a hand to him, to help him to his feet, and Clark had clung to it in amazement, unable to fully believe it was tangible, it was real. For a long moment they had just looked at each other, unspeaking, the battle raging on around them.

And then one of Zod's personal troops had charged at them, face contorted with fury, and Clark had moved to punch him and Bruce had fallen into place next to him, and then they were fighting side-by-side as always, as if the last horrible, empty year had never happened.

Every night Clark relived that moment, the joy of it, the way the universe had fallen back into the right patterns. Every day he carried that joy with him, close to his heart, like a secret. And despite that joy--or perhaps because of it--it was becoming rather annoying to have Batman resolutely refusing to look at him. "All right, Bruce," he said, trying not to sound too irritable, "What's the problem? Did you not want to come on this mission? Is this generalized grumpiness or have I done something specific to offend you?"

Batman whirled and stalked up to Superman. "You," he growled, pointing at him with one dark finger. "I came back from the dead, struggled through endless lifetimes of pain and suffering, clawed my way back to the present and charged off to save your life on the battlefield, and _you_...didn't hug me."

Clark blinked. Batman stood silent and accusing as an onyx statue, the wind lifting his cape the only motion about him. And then the corner of his mouth twitched in the barest of smiles.

Clark laughed, somewhat shakily. "You know what I've missed most about you, Bruce? Your sense of humor."

Bruce relaxed abruptly back into his crossed-arm posture. The smile was definitely tugging both sides of his mouth now, but he repeated, his voice as grim as if discussing how crime never sleeps: "You. Didn't. Hug me."

"We were, in case you didn't notice it, _on a battlefield at the time_, under attack by both human and Kryptonian soldiers!" That was a rationalization, Clark knew. There had been time for a brief comradely embrace. But Batman was right, he had just stood there like an idiot, shaken and overjoyed and unable to even move as he looked at his friend. Bruce Wayne, proud and beautiful and back from conquering death as he conquered everything. Everything. And now Clark was bickering with him about hugs. "Besides, you were hardly Mr. Snuggles when _I_ came back from the dead," he pointed out, feeling foolish.

"That's different," Bruce said haughtily, lifting his chin. "Batman doesn't hug. Superman hugs. And you didn't." A pause. "You still haven't."

"All right then," Clark said, "One super-welcome-back hug coming up." He put out one hand and awkwardly pulled Batman against him in a one-armed hug. "There, I--"

Batman moved suddenly, a strange, ungainly motion that didn't have any of his usual grace, turning into the half-hearted hug and putting both of his arms around Superman, holding him close. _"Clark,"_ he said, his voice hoarse, and Clark closed his arms around Bruce in turn, the amazing _reality_ of him, warm and strong. Clark's heart was pounding--or it might have been Bruce's, he couldn't tell, they were pressed so close now, Bruce's fingers digging into his back as if to get him even closer.

"Bruce. Bruce." His voice was shaking. "I missed you," Clark whispered against the slick black cowl, his lips touching leather, and if the cowl were off they would be against Bruce's hair, soft and dark as dreams. "Bruce, I--" _The world made no sense without you,_ he wanted to say, started to say...

...just as the Zeta beam caught them up and took them to Rann.

**: : :**

They were in a large gray room, one window overlooking the turrets and spires of Rann. Batman whirled from Clark's embrace so quickly that it was like he had never been there; aside from a slightly lifted eyebrow Adam Strange betrayed no other reaction.

"No time for formalities, old friends," Strange said as they stepped off the platform. "We've received word there may be a plot to disrupt your trip, so we're going to get you to Srataan as soon as possible." He held out two bundles of cloth and gestured toward two screens, incongruously floral-patterned in a room full of alien technology. "We'll talk as you change."

Clark's clothes were a deep burgundy with gold braiding, with a golden disc engraved with what seemed to be a stylized tree that fastened a black half-cape to his shoulder. The cloth was stiff and heavy, like brocade.

"Some people on Srataan don't want their planet to open up to interstellar trade," said Strange as Clark fiddled with the metal buttons.

"I read the dossier." Batman's tone implied that Strange was insulting his intelligence. "Do you have any additional information?" Clark could hear rustling sounds from behind his screen.

"Nothing specific. I'm just annoyed that after two decades of negotiations, they've stipulated that they require neutral parties from a planet nowhere near this system to finalize the treaty."

"So you picked us because Earth is such a backwater?" asked Clark.

Strange laughed. "I picked you because Batman and Superman are two of the best negotiators I know, and together I'm sure you'll be able to convince Srataan its interests will be served by joining the Rannian League. Plus you're two of the only people I know who'd be able to process the information on Srataanian culture quickly enough."

"There are some fairly major gaps in those files," Bruce said, stepping out from behind the screen. Clark found himself gaping unashamedly. Bruce was wearing a midnight-blue tunic in a fabric that looked as silky and fine as Clark's was heavy. On the chest a five-petaled flower with a star at its heart was picked out in silver thread. Clark's eyes traveled involuntarily down tight black pants to knee-high black boots, then back up. A band of metallic cloth was looped around Bruce's neck like a choker to complete the look, and he was wearing a band of gem-spangled black silk as a mask.

Bruce's eyebrows arched and Clark looked away hurriedly.

"Srataan's isolationist history has meant we don't have a lot of information to go on," said Strange. "They've shared very little with us. They did stipulate that these would be the uniforms they expected you to wear to the negotiations."

Bruce brushed at the silver threads in his tunic. "If I understood the files correctly, I'm dressed as a member of the _amri-je_, a specialized cadre in the military?"

"Yes, and Kal-El has been given a traditional diplomat's outfit. They insisted you should dress like Srataanians as a sign of respect. It's also a security measure--they don't want you to stand out too much."

"Well," said Bruce, "I'll grant they do have good fashion sense." He was looking at Clark, his eyes glinting through the black silk, and Clark took a deep breath and turned to their host.

"We're ready."

Adam Strange bowed slightly and gestured toward the Zeta Beam platform. "I'm sorry for the rush, gentlemen, but we'd like to get you to Srataan as quickly as possible."

They took their places and Strange stepped behind the controls. The Zeta Beam generator hummed into life and Strange pushed the lever that would send them to Srataan.

As he did, there was a sudden commotion outside the door and a man burst through the door, dressed in a costume much like Bruce's and wielding an ugly-looking raygun. "Srataan Forever!" he screamed and aimed at them.

The beam from the gun intersected the Zeta Beam. The world vanished from around them in a nauseating wrench as Clark heard Adam Strange yelling a sentence he never heard end.

**: : :**

Clark staggered as the Zeta Beam released him, feeling the world spin around him. He doubled over, struggling to keep from being sick. Through his disorientation, he felt an extra spike of panic: _Bruce._ Had they been separated? He croaked his companion's name and was relieved to hear an answering grunt. The world seemed to be stabilizing now, and Clark felt blades of grass tickling his nose. He sneezed and the world went back to spinning again.

There were hands on his shoulders. "Easy," Bruce's voice said. "Relax. Close your eyes for a second." Clark did so and focused on Bruce's touch instead. His head hurt. His stomach hurt.

"What--" He managed to choke out.

"Something went wrong with the Zeta Beam."

Clark cracked his eyes open gingerly and the world came into gradual focus. He and Bruce were in a field of blue flowers, nodding in the wind.

The sun had a distinct reddish tinge.

"Where are we?" Clark asked, his stomach sinking.

"Not where. When." Bruce pointed and Clark turned to see a small village of clay buildings. A wagon was leaving it, drawn by an elk-like animal with leopard-dappled fur. There was no sign of technology whatsoever. "I recognize that animal from the files, it's the dominant herbivore on Srataan. This is the right planet, it's just the wrong time. The distant past, I'm guessing. Late Iron Age, based on the village. That means we're six or seven thousand years in the past."

"This can't be Srataan," said Clark, shaking his head at the reddish sky. "Suns don't go from red to yellow."

Bruce glared at the sun as if it were a personal affront. "I'd guess particulates, maybe from a volcanic explosion, shifting the spectrum temporarily. Can you..." His voice trailed off questioningly, and Clark shook his head.

"I'm having problems standing at the moment, forget flying." Bruce made a disgruntled noise. "Well, it's not _my_ fault some lunatic decided to disrupt our Zeta Beam," Clark said, knowing he sounded childishly peeved.

"I didn't say it was," Bruce said, still frowning at the sky. He slipped something that looked like a tiny cell phone out of his pocket. "Lucky I decided not to leave this behind. Zeta Beam detector," he said to Clark's curious look. "It can predict where and when the next natural Zeta Beam will show up. If we can get there in time...probably it'll take us back to Rann."

"Rann five thousand years ago?"

"Well," Bruce said, "It would still be closer to where we want to be." The little machine made a _booping_ sound, and Bruce made an annoyed sound in his throat. "The next estimated beam intersepction is a week from now, and quite a ways to the southeast. We'll have to figure out some means of transportation." He put the machine away and stared at the town. "Srataan would be largely a nomadic culture at this point."

Clark peered north, shading his eyes against the hazy red light. "Those mountains are probably the Dilandrahoons, which means we're in the northern part of the continent. If we can find our way to the Sondo River we can probably follow it upstream to Zuuri, which is--well, it won't be the planetary capital _yet_, but should be a large enough city for us to be inconspicuous while we pinpoint where the beam will come through," Clark said. "What, did you think I didn't read the same dossier you did?" he added as Bruce shot him a look.

Bruce made a neutral growling noise which probably meant "Yes, but I'm far too polite to say so." He started to move through the field of flowers, golden grasses brushing up against his tunic. "Let's get our bearings and try to find transportation." He untied his mask as he went, slipping it into a pocket. "I doubt anyone here will be reporting my secret identity back home," he noted wryly.

The village was a uniform golden-red color, soft-edged buildings made from something like adobe. Washing hung from clotheslines strung from building to building; Clark was relieved to see that the cut of their clothes was unusual but not clearly futuristic: thank goodness for military costumes keeping traditional design. Children played and tumbled in the dust of the street, most of them red-haired and darker-skinned than Clark and Bruce, though a few were closer to their coloring.

"We need to find a--" Bruce began, when a voice cut in.

"You," it said, and Clark turned with Bruce to see a hulking, broad-shouldered man with auburn hair in a uniform of olive drab. He was nearly a head taller than Clark, and gazed down on him with a look of suspicion. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" His gaze fell to the silver insignia on Bruce's chest and a complicated mix of emotions flickered across his face. "Is this one an _amri_?" he said to Clark.

Clark cast a quick glance at Bruce but found no help there; Bruce was listening intently, his face blank. Bruce had described his outfit as belonging to an _amri-je_, which must be related, so... "Yes."

"Is he _yours?"_

Clark felt unease start to settle in the pit of his belly; he was fairly certain elite military personnel did not belong to people. But not knowing what was going on, it seemed safest to say yes. "He's mine."

The look on the man's face settled into one of near-disgust. "By Dilandra's rosy nipples, man, where are you from? Some gods-forsaken south town like Senah?"

"Slightly...south of there, actually."

"Well, I should have guessed from your accent, I suppose." The man wrinkled his nose. "Look, you southerners can do what you like up there, but here in civilized parts we dress our _amri_ _properly_." He waved a hand at Bruce's attire. "Your _amri_ did not go through a lifetime of training and preparation just to be stuffed into something like _this_. Show some respect to his sacrifice and let him display his servitude as he's meant to. Honestly." He pointed at the silver ribbon around Bruce's neck. "You haven't even seen fit to give him a proper collar. What are you southerners, barbarians?"

Collar? Clark looked to Bruce for some cue, and discovered to his shock that somewhere during the man's speech everything about him had changed. The regal military-style bearing was gone, replaced by downcast eyes, hands held demurely in front of him, his entire posture submissive and deferential.

Oh Rao, thought Clark as he finally finished processing what the man had said. Oh Rao, no.

"You deserve better, don't you, Dark One?" said the uniformed man. "Imagine keeping an _amri_ all covered up like that, it's totally against Code."

"My Master is sometimes unorthodox," said Bruce in a soft, light voice.

The man's eyebrows shot upward. "I would say so," he said, shooting a glance at Clark, "If he gives his _amri_ freedom to speak without leave. A very lax master indeed."

Clark jerked his chin up and looked down his nose at his interrogator. "He pleased me so well last night I have given him leave to speak freely all of today."

The red-haired man shook his head, chuckling. "Unorthodox indeed. And hardly fair to the poor _amri_, denying him his '_sacred right to submission in all things'_," he said in the tone of one quoting scripture. "Well," he went on, "I'll take you to the marketplace to get some more Code-compliant clothing."

"I'll go there soon and--"

The man drew himself up and put his hands on his hips in the way of bullying military types the galaxy over. "I say we go now, southerner."

Clark grimaced and fell in behind him.

"Morning, Captain Li," called one of the vendors across the bustling sounds of the marketplace. "Anything I can do for you?"

The red-haired man swaggered up to the stall. "We got an _amri_ in violation of the Code, needs some more appropriate clothing."

"Oh, _amri_ clothing and jewelry," the man said, seeming flustered. "Oh my, I don't have much of a selection. I'm just a traveling salesman."

"Surely you got something that'll suit?"

"Yes, well," the man pursed his lips. "I have a few items I was hoping to sell when I went to Zuuri next time, but maybe..." He rummaged under his table and came out with a small, elaborately, carved wooden chest. Inside was...very little, actually. Some bits of metal and fur. Clark was wondering where the clothing was when the vendor reached and and pulled out a tiny silk loincloth trimmed with black fur and bits of wrought black metal, and he realized that _was_ the clothing.

The vendor and Captain Li looked at him expectantly, and Clark realized with a shock he had no idea of the economic system. "I...I'm afraid I have no money. There was a..." He let the sentence trail off and the vendor nodded sympathetically.

"...Got caught in one of those flash floods on the Sondo, did you, sir?"

"It was terrible," Clark murmured.

"Well," said the vendor, "what are those buttons of yours made out of?"

Clark touched one of the shining buttons. "Um, gold?"

The vendor shrugged. "Cut one off and I'll give you the outfit. I'll even throw in some sandals."

Under Captain Li's watchful eye, Clark cut one of the buttons off and handed it over. The vendor bit on it thoughtfully, frowned, and somewhat grudgingly handed over the scrap of cloth.

"He needs a proper collar, and perhaps some ankle bells," suggested Captain Li.

The vendor waved his hands in negation. "I don't carry collars, never got a license from the Temple for that. You'd have to go to a bigger town. I have a few ankle bells--"

"--That won't be necessary," said Clark, hoping from Li's wording that the bells were optional.

Both the vendor and Li looked disappointed. "Such a lovely _amri_ deserves a more considerate master," murmured the vendor, but not so loudly that he couldn't pretend to have said nothing.

"Well," Clark said, turning to Li with his handful of cloth, "Thank you for helping me get him up to the proper Code. Now if you'll point us to an inn where he can change--"

"--What? Why not have him change here?"

"Here? In the street?" Clark resisted the urge to look at Bruce; he could tell he wouldn't get any help from that quarter right now.

_"The amri exists to serve one, but to delight all,"_ Li said, quoting again. "Why would you have such a treasure and be unwilling to flaunt him?"

Clark imagined Bruce stripping down in the street, taking off his boots and pants and heavy tunic with the hungry eyes of Captain Li on him, and felt angry heat rising inside of him. "Now, you--"

There was a gentle hand on his arm and Clark turned to see Bruce, his eyes still cast down. "Master," said Bruce, "You know I'm proud to display myself, to magnify your honor." He looked up, the merest flick of dark blue eyes that felt like a physical contact, full of meaning.

Clark crossed his arms. "Very well," he said, following Bruce's lead. "Go ahead."

Bruce slowly undid his heavy black boots, taking his time with the lacing. Then he stood and pulled the dark blue tunic over his head, followed by the white silk undertunic. By this time a small crowd had gathered and there was a murmuring as his chest and back were bared, most likely a reaction to the scars.

Clark tried to keep his face impassive as Bruce unbuckled his pants, but all he could think of was that he'd never seen Bruce naked. Oh, in the showers, in the medlab...but never like this. Never when he was allowed--expected--to just look and watch as Bruce revealed more and more skin, more tightly muscled body, all because Clark had asked him to. _To magnify your honor._

Bruce was entirely nude now. His movements were neither lascivious nor hasty; he moved with the easy grace of one entirely unembarrassed by the crowd's stares, entirely uninterested in their attention. As he folded the leggings neatly, he locked eyes with Clark, a small smile on his face, and Clark's pulse did odd things. Because it wasn't a submissive smile at all, for a moment.

Not at all. It was mocking and challenging, and it made Clark's heart race faster than the sight of Bruce's sinewed legs.

Then Bruce broke the gaze and picked up his loincloth with the lazy ease of a person who had no shame in his beauty, fastening it carefully around his waist. It barely covered his genitals and made no pretense at all of privacy in the back, giving Clark--and the entire crowd that had stopped to gawk--an unimpeded view of muscular buttocks. Ignoring everyone else, Bruce bowed deeply to Clark. "Does this worthless one please you, Master?" he murmured.

Clark had to take a couple of deep breaths before he could answer. "Yes, you look satisfactory," he said.

Captain Li chuckled. "You are a difficult man to please, southerner."

Bruce looked up from the bow, his eyes huge and limpid. "Yet he is worth every effort this one can make," he breathed.

"Yes. Well." Clark couldn't stop looking at the line of Bruce's back, the delicate curve of his spine trailing downward-- "I wish to travel to the north," he said to Li, wrenching his eyes away.

"Ah, you will travel to Zuuri?"

"Yes," Clark said. It had to be more or less the right direction.

"You're in luck. There is a caravan leaving this very afternoon," said Li. "The caravan master, Fa, is staying at the Crossed Swords Inn. If you wish, I can escort you there to meet him."

"Yes, please," said Clark.

"Master..." murmured Bruce. At Clark's nod, he went on, "May I visit the Temple while you make arrangements?" He gestured toward a building with little to distinguish it from the rest except for one thing: etched above the door it had the insignia of a five-petaled flower, identical to the one on Bruce's abandoned tunic but without the star at its heart.

"Of course, dear one," said Clark. "I would never keep you from the Temple."

Bruce bowed again and turned away, but not before he met Clark's gaze one last time, his eyes full of promise.

It was not a promise of servitude.

Clark watched Bruce walk away across the square, the sway in his hips indicating he knew full well he was being watched. Then he noticed Li was watching as well, his eyes avid. "The inn?" Clark said, and Li tore his gaze away with evident reluctance.

"Of course. This way."

Fa, the caravan master, was a slim man with mutton-chop sideburns and watery blue eyes which widened at the silver threading in Bruce's discarded uniform. "I'll take you to Zuuri for the thread, and throw in a tent for you to stay in nights," he said. Clark suspected the ease of bartering meant he was getting massively fleeced, but was too happy to gain passage to complain.

"I'll be going as well," Captain Li said. "I've...taken an interest in traveling north, it seems." Clark didn't particularly like the smile on his face.

Fa looked delighted. "You know it's always a pleasure to have a member of the Guard along. So much safer," he beamed as he picked the silvery thread deftly from dark blue cloth. "We'll be leaving in a couple of hours," he said to Clark, flipping him a small copper coin. "Have a drink while you wait."

Clark had _definitely_ gotten fleeced. But he took the money and got a mug of something that tasted like weak red wine and a scattering of brass coins in return, some of them stamped with the five-petaled flower symbol. Then he put his back to the wall and watched the patrons carefully, waiting for Bruce's return.

When he did, it was an event. He sauntered through the door and every eye in the place was immediately on him. He scanned the room until his eyes fell on Clark, and his face lit up in a smile that made Clark's wine suddenly seem stronger and sweeter. Crossing the room, he knelt before Clark on one knee, eyes cast down and hand over his heart. "Master, this one returns to the light in your eyes," he intoned.

Murmurs of appreciation went around the room; clearly Bruce had been doing his research on proper behavior. "Yes. Well. Thank you," Clark said, distracted by the realization that Bruce's eyes were smudged with something dark and slightly iridescent now, and that there was a rather dizzying scent like lilies and musk in the air between them. The crowd seemed less pleased with his graceless response, but Bruce merely moved to curl up on the floor at his knee with every evidence of delight. He ran one hand up Clark's calf--and Clark almost choked on his drink, because the caress was anything but soft and pliant. Instead, strong fingers gripped the muscles of his leg so fiercely it nearly hurt, kneading through the fabric with demanding roughness.

It felt, Clark realized, very good.

_Situation under control_, Bruce signed to him in the crude touch-language the JLA had devised for these situations, imprinting the message into his skin as if it were Batman's grating voice. Then he added in the more subtle, nuanced code the two of them had devised, _Are you enjoying this?_

Clark looked down at the nearly naked man at his feet; Bruce looked back at him with his eyes smoldering. Clark patted Bruce's head fondly, the dark curls thick under his fingers. _Of course not,_ he signed emphatically.

_I should think you'd like having me helpless and at your command,_ Bruce said, his fingers firm against Clark's leg and a world of hidden laughter in his touch, none of which reached his sultry, worshipful eyes. "I hope this worthless one pleases you," Bruce aloud.

_You, helpless? Impossible._ He could probably remove his hand from Bruce's hair, but instead he let the locks slide between his fingers as if it were something he'd been longing to do forever.

Fingers dug into his calf with bruising strength and Clark barely kept from groaning aloud in startled delight. "Oh yes," he said. "You please me...a great deal." Bruce's hands climbed ever so slightly higher, and Clark waited for his next message, but there didn't seem to be one. Well, no coded message, at least. Bruce's hands seemed to be conveying a great many messages indeed to Clark. He looked into his mug, almost afraid to meet those eyes, afraid what they might see in his own. He prayed the caravan would leave soon or there seemed to be some risk he'd end up dragging Bruce onto his lap, just to have those mocking, taunting hands where he could touch them, hold them fast...

When Fa announced the caravan was leaving, Clark leapt to his feet so hastily he almost spilled the rest of his wine.

: : :

The caravan was of covered wagons drawn by the spotted elk-like animals Clark had seen earlier. "I've got some of the best _paakra_ on the continent," Fa bragged as he helped Clark scramble up onto his wagon and handed him a whip. "Mostly they'll follow the lead without any prompting, so don't you worry." Clark helped Bruce up onto the seat next to him, painfully aware of how some of the men and women in the caravan watched his body. Captain Li especially stood and watched, smirking, for longer than Clark felt comfortable with.

Fa gave a sharp whistle and the _paakra_ started to lumber forward. As they fell into a convoy line, some of Fa's workers struck up a rhythm with timbrels, drums, and tambourines that seemed to be setting the pace for the animals. "We should be able to talk a little more freely now," Bruce said, his voice not carrying over the rumble of wheels and jangle of percussion.

"What did you find out at the Temple?"

"The _amri_ are valued property, given by the Temples to men and women who have proven themselves the strongest in physical combat. Men and women alike have been known to duel over the right to own an _amri_. It's a highly coveted honor."

"To own another person?" spat Clark.

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "No, to be owned. To become an _amri_."

"An _honor_?" Clark felt like he might fall off the wagon with the force of his answer. "To be a _slave_?"

Bruce sighed and snuggled against him as the wagon jolted over a rock, looking for all the world like he was trying to coax his Master out of a bad mood. "The _amri_ are closer to priest-prostitutes than slaves. Only the most beautiful, graceful and intelligent children are chosen for the chance to train for ten years in order to gain the privilege."

"The privilege of being owned by another human being," Clark said blankly.

"The privilege of magnifying the glory of Dilandra through holy servitude," Bruce intoned piously. He tilted his head. "Clark, do you honestly have no capacity to see how some people might revel in having their responsibilities lifted from them? The ecstasy of being beyond choice, beyond freedom, of knowing your life was cradled, always, in another person's hands?" His voice was thoughtful. "The bliss of service without question, without self-doubt..."

Clark's face felt hot. "I don't--I mean, that's awful."

Bruce shrugged, a fluid motion of bare shoulders that made Clark's mind feel fuzzy. "I'm just saying it's an understandable human tendency."

"Shouldn't we be trying to do something to stop it?"

"This is all _history,_ Clark. At some point in Srataanian development, the _amri_ evolved into the _amri-je_ and became priest-warriors instead, so obviously something happened to change their status naturally. We shouldn't interfere."

Clark realized he was twiddling the whip handle in his fingers and stopped himself. "So how am I supposed to be acting toward you?"

Bruce shifted on the wooden seat, wrapping himself around Clark's arm. "Like Li said, an _amri_ exists to serve one, but to delight all. That means I belong to you, a valuable ornament, a status symbol that you will wish to show off as much as possible. I am to dance, serve drinks, and otherwise be available for the delectation of others, who can look as much as they like but not touch." His hands tightened slightly on Clark's arm. "It's only for a week," he said like he was apologizing.

"I don't like it."

Bruce's voice was richly amused. "I'd noticed." He leaned forward and kissed Clark's cheek, an affectionate peck that seemed deeply at odds with his state of garish undress. "Buck up, champ. You'll just have to resign yourself to a week of owning my body." Clark could only make an inarticulate growling sound in response to that, and Bruce threw back his head and laughed.

After that they wiled away the remainder of the day comparing notes on the culture, debating the role of the Temple of Dilandra in Srataanian society, and sometimes just riding in silence together. The light was rich and bright across the steppes, the sky arcing above them in violet splendor, tinted by the crimson sun. Birds rose up from the grass at their approach, their shrill cries cutting over the drumbeats and bells.

Clark looked over at Bruce, currently holding forth on possible sociological models for Srataanian culture. Bruce broke off the mini-lecture at the look. "What?"

"Nothing." Clark looked away. "It's just...it's good to get to talk to you for a while. Uninterrupted. There's been no time since you...got back. And precious little before then."

"There's never really enough time." There was a weight of sadness in Bruce's voice that made Clark turn again to look at him; he was staring off across the vast plain of grass. "Not with the lives we've chosen."

Clark laughed slightly. "I had a lot of conversations with you over the last year." Bruce looked at him, puzzled. "Every night, just about. I'd come back to my bare little room on New Krypton and tell you about my day, ask what you thought of my choices." The chuckle became a full laugh. "You didn't like most of them."

"I am certain," Bruce said with some tartness, "That most of them involved you risking your life foolishly."

"Many did."

"Then no, I wouldn't have liked them." Bruce's voice was sardonic, but his mouth was tilted in a smile. "I'm glad I'm back so I can berate you for your idiotic choices in person."

"So am I." The breath caught briefly in Clark's throat. "Oh, Bruce. So am I."

Bruce met his gaze, his shadow-smudged eyes level, devoid of flirtation or coyness. "Thank you," he said. Then he grabbed Clark's arm and hissed "Look," pointing. A vast shape like a sabretooth tiger, inky black and with two whiplike tails, was slinking through the grass. The _paakra_ snorted and stamped in a panic as they caught the scent of the predator, and there was a sharp whistling as Captain Li suddenly unshouldered a longbow and loosed a few arrows at the beast. It yowled, a deep, shuddering sound, and disappeared into the sea of grass once more.

"Now we know why it's good to have a guard along," noted Bruce.

Clark watched the way Li was preening and keeping an eye on Bruce to see if his prowess was being appreciated, and wasn't sure it was _that_ good to have a guard along.

**: : :**

The caravan master called a halt for the night within sight of a wide, shallow river. "We'll ford it tomorrow," he said as his men and women scrambled about putting out bedrolls and tents.

The tent they set up for Clark was a surprisingly airy affair of some material like light silk, bare inside but for one bedroll and a hide of thick black fur to cover it. Clark yearned to go inside, to have something walling himself and Bruce off from the rest of the world, but Fa waved them over to the crackling fire where most of the caravan members were sitting cross-legged, chewing on some kind of biscuit and drinking tea.

Bruce bowed deeply to the gathering as Clark sat down and removed his sandals with the air of a person performing ritual. He moved to take over the serving of the tea. Deftly he went around the circle, pouring steaming liquid into small cups of bone.

When he reached Captain Li, the man smiled and pulled something out of his pocket: a copper chain hung with tiny bells. He shook it slightly and it jangled. "Bought you a little something, Dark One," he said.

Bruce stood still, looking at him and not moving, and Li flashed Clark a glance. "All right with you if I give it to him?"

Politeness warred with possessiveness for a moment; Clark nodded reluctantly. Li held up the anklet again. "Give me your foot," he said to Bruce.

Bruce hesitated a moment longer, then raised one foot, his knee bent like a ballerina caught in mid-pirouette. The other people around the fire murmured appreciatively as he held the pose without swaying, perfectly still. Li fastened the belled chain around his ankle, taking his time about it. "Pretty bells for a pretty _amri_," he murmured as he let Bruce's foot go.

Bruce pivoted on one foot and went to sit at Clark's side, his face expressionless. Clark reached out to pat his shoulder; it was rigid under his hand, unyielding.

Captain Li was smiling.

: : :

"What were you _thinking?"_ Bruce rounded on him as soon as they entered the tent. "You let him touch me!"

Clark blinked at him. "It wasn't my place to--"

"--it damn well _is_ your place, although it might not be for long." Bruce paced around the tent. If Clark didn't know better, he'd say the man looked anxious. "By letting him touch me, by letting him mark me with _this_\--" He stamped the ground and the anklet jangled angrily, "--You've publicly admitted weakness. You've made it clear I'm up for grabs."

Clark scowled. "You don't belong to me. I'm not--I mean--I'd never treat you that way."

Bruce whirled on him, his dark eyes furious. "We're not on Earth, Clark. The rules are different here."

"I can't--"

"--Look, I know this is difficult for you, but you have to _pretend_ you value me enough to actually put up a fight for me!"

Clark stared at him, seeing suddenly a strange hurt under the anger. "Bruce, I..." He reached out a hand, not quite touching him. "You know I..."

_"Klaak!"_ The bellow nearly shook the silken walls of the tent, and Clark recognized his own name, pronounced with a Srataanian lilt. "Come out and face a challenge!"

"Ah, damn," breathed Bruce as Clark ducked out of the tent.

Li was standing in the middle of the circle of tents, legs spread in a fighting stance, a quarterstaff gripped in his hands. "Klaak," he said Clark emerged from his tent. "I challenge you for possession of your _amri_. Fight me now or prove yourself unworthy of his service and his body!"

There was a hand on his arm, hooking him back into the tent. Bruce's lips were at his ear. "Give me up, let me go," hissed Bruce. "I can get away later, you know I can. You don't need to fight him."

"You are not brave enough for such a beauty, Klaak!" roared Li in the circle.

Clark stared at Bruce, then pulled his arm away.

"Damn it, Clark!" Bruce whispered fiercely. "You don't have powers here! You could get hurt! I won't let you get hurt for me!" His eyes were dark with worry; Clark felt something tightening in his chest at the sight.

"I won't lose you, Bruce. Not again. Do you hear me? I _will not_ lose you again."

He pulled away and went out to face Li.

The red-headed captain towered above Clark by at least a head; he grinned and tossed the quarterstaff at Clark, leaning down to pick up another one. "I assume you don't know the rules, Southerner," he said mockingly. "There clearly aren't enough _ban-tal_ in your home village to even compete for the honor of an _amri_, to judge by your staggering incompetence. So I shall remind you there _are_ no rules. Anything goes until one of us is unable to stand and yields." The quarterstaff twirled between them. "I look forward to treating your Dark One the way he deserves to be treated. I'll have him squirming under me this very night." He dropped into a defensive crouch, his eyes on Clark. "Perhaps I'll do it here by the fire, so all can watch me take my pleasure from him." The crowd that had gathered murmured slightly--in offense or appreciation Clark wasn't sure, and he no longer cared. Stark anger was burning in his belly; he tamped it down as best he could. Anger wouldn't help him win this fight.

Li jumped forward and Clark swung the quarterstaff up at the last second, still unsure of its heft and weight. He heard someone gasp behind him under the ringing clash of wood; it sounded almost like Bruce, but he had never heard Bruce sound so horror-stricken. He ducked, parried, ducked again, feeling the blows echoing in the bones of his arms. Li was incredibly strong, and Clark knew he was overmatched almost immediately. A combination of panic and fury galvanized him; he swung out and connected with Li's elbow, a glancing blow that nevertheless made the taller man grunt with surprise.

Then the butt of Li's quarterstaff got through his defenses and he felt it _whack_ against his forehead.

He staggered, his head ringing, feeling blood trickling into his eyebrow. In a moment it would be in his eye and he wouldn't be able to see. Li stepped forward, staff raised for the finishing blow.

_"Clark,"_ someone groaned, their voice filled with anguish.

His own hands felt heavier than mountains, but he reached down to scoop up a handful of earth; as Li brought down the staff he threw the dirt into the other man's eyes.

Li scrabbled at his eyes, growling, and Clark brought the butt of his staff up into his groin as hard as he could.

Li made a sound like steam escaping from a kettle and collapsed very slowly, doubling in on himself. "Do you yield?" demanded Clark, shaking the quarterstaff over his prone body.

No answer but wheezes.

_"Do you yield?"_

The caravan master stepped forward to take away Li's quarterstaff; Li put up no protest. "I believe this match is over," he said.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Clark's vision was dark around the edges; the blood started to drip into his eye but he was too tired to wipe it away. His heart was pounding. He blinked and realized Bruce was in front of him, a cloth in his hands. The cloth was cool on his forehead; Clark hissed in pain as it touched his wound. "I beat him," he muttered thickly. He bent down and unclasped the copper anklet, hurled it into the shadows. "I'll get you a new one in Zuuri," he announced to renewed applause.

"I admit I didn't think you had it in you," Bruce said under the crowd's calls.

"You didn't think I'd fight for you?"

Bruce shook his head, not meeting his eyes. "I know you're brave; one of the bravest men I know. I knew you'd fight." His slid a hand to cup Clark's cheek and Clark leaned into it almost unconsciously. "No, I didn't think you'd be willing to fight _dirty_ for me," he said.

"I'd do anything for you," Clark said. "Anything."

Bruce leaned forward and kissed him.

Bruce's mouth tasted like musk, like cinnamon, like _Bruce_. He bit gently at Clark's lower lip, and Clark found himself deepening the kiss as if he couldn't help it, his tongue exploring as Bruce inhaled sharply and explored back, strange and wonderful and perfect.

"Oh," Clark said dumbly as Bruce finally pulled away. "Oh."

"This is my Master," Bruce said loudly, kneeling to take Clark's hand and press his forehead to it. "This is the man I shall serve all my days, my strength and my consolation." His fingers tightened on Clark's. _"Mine,"_ he said, and his voice was rich and fierce and possessive.

Things got blurry for a while after that; there were small cups of steaming alcohol that Clark tried to pass up but were pressed into his hands by cheerful supporters. Fa started a chant of some sort that most people joined in on: something bawdy enough to make Clark's ears burn. And then someone was calling for the _amri_ to do a Dance of Victory, dance for the glory of your master.

Clark blinked through the haze of wine and weariness. Bruce was standing in the firelight, the muscles of his chest cast into sharp chiaroscuro, his arms lifted. He beckoned, and the tambourines and drums started a slow, sinuous beat that seemed to reach into Clark's body, twine around his pulse.

Bruce danced.

His movements were grace itself, supple, shadow and flame embodied together. The crowd hushed, murmuring, as his bare feet stamped at the ground, his hands caressing and cutting the darkness.

His eyes never left Clark's.

_Mine._

Clark's breath was short. Bruce's dance had nothing of meekness, nothing of submission in it; it was triumphant, joyous, claiming. He clapped his hands together with the drums and the timbrels, and Clark's heart leaped with it, answering: _Yours._ It was a dance of power, of surety. He turned and swayed and his feet kissed the earth, and Clark ached with joy to watch it, ached with desire for it to end.

A final flourish and Bruce bowed low to Clark. He looked up into Clark's eyes, a lazy smile on his face. "Does this worthless one please you, Master?" his voice said. His eyes said _Mine._

Clark stood, a little unsteadily. "You please me well indeed," he said as formally as he could manage. "Come with me now and please me more."

The crowd murmured in what sounded like disappointment as Bruce stood and trailed Clark to the tent, a polite step behind his Master.

**: : :**

The tent flap had barely fallen into place behind them before they were in each others' arms again, Bruce pulling him so close Clark felt breathless. They staggered ungracefully to the bedroll, hands slipping under silk and brocade to cherished skin. Bruce touched his lips to Clark's broken brow with shaking tenderness. "I hate when you get hurt," he muttered thickly. "I had nightmares, when I was...traveling. Nightmares of a beautiful man being hurt, over and over, in a thousand different ways. I didn't know who he was. I knew I couldn't bear to see him hurt. That was the only thing I knew. The only thing I carried with me, through all the lives." Clark kissed his throat, the terrifyingly vulnerable hollow of his collarbone, brushed his lips along the fine hair around one nipple. Bruce groaned. "I promised myself," he went on, his voice low, "that when I found him, I would ask him--ask him--" His voice broke off and he dragged Clark back up into a long, searching kiss, and for a long time they did nothing but lie together, hands warm on skin, kissing as if they had nothing but time to memorize each other.

"What were you going to ask him?" Clark finally whispered into his hair. Bruce stayed silent, and Clark let his hands roam Bruce's ribs in fragments of their code: _My lost one who is found. My pearl of great price, worth everything. My dearest friend._ "Tell me," Clark said aloud.

"I promised myself that I would ask him to allow me to love him," Bruce said in a long, shaky exhalation.

Clark found himself suddenly caught between tears and laughter. "Bruce, you impossible, stubborn, perfect man," he whispered, "when have you _ever_ waited for my permission to do anything?"

Bruce kissed the corner of his eye, touching moisture Clark hadn't known was there.

"I didn't this time, either," he said.

**: : :**

The wagon jolted over a rut and Clark winced but considered himself compensated by the way Bruce clung to his arm more tightly. Some kind of lark was singing in the sky above the caravan, a joyous trill of delight; Clark smiled up at it.

"My master seems well-pleased," said Bruce, snuggling closer.

Clark's head ached where Li's staff had whacked it; his body was both painfully sore and delightfully aching.

"I am," he said.


	2. Vaster Than Empires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce eventually catch a Zeta Beam, but it doesn't quite go as they hope...and now the tables are turned.

They reached Zuuri in three days--almost too quickly for Clark's liking. Even the venomous glances cast by a sulking Captain Li couldn't sour his mood, not with Bruce at his side and in his bed.

Zuuri resembled a reconstruction of ancient Babylon: golden brick ziggurauts and tall palm-like trees, with something like a coliseum in the center. "You should take your _amri_ to get him a proper collar, now that you can afford it," noted the caravan-master.

Clark's purse was heavy and jangling with money given by fellow caravan-riders grateful for Bruce's dancing and tea-serving. He cast Bruce a look, and Bruce surprised him by saying "A proper collar would be pleasant, dearest Master."

And so Clark found himself in one of the better purveyors of slave jewelry in Zuuri. The store owner, a willowy woman with auburn hair and vermilion-tipped fingernails, ignored Bruce entirely and addressed herself only to Clark. It shouldn't have surprised him, of course, but somehow he couldn't help it--it didn't seem possible anyone could ignore the man at his side.

"Would honored sir be wanting an anklet as well?" She produced a tray of glittering metal and gems.

Clark eyed Bruce surreptitiously, but the other man stood with his eyes cast politely down. Clark ran his gaze over the rows of belled chains--and stopped. One anklet was a rich, metallic blue. Clark touched it lightly. "Do you have any collars in this metal?"

"Of course, honored sir."

The owner went into the back of the store and returned with a light collar of filigreed metal, royal blue and gleaming. "I'll take this and the anklet," Clark said.

The owner handed it to him and Clark stared at it, then at Bruce. "Only you may have the honor of collaring me, Master," said Bruce. Clark's hands shook slightly as he clicked the collar shut around Bruce's proud neck and Bruce shot him a look that made him want to hurry back to their room.

As they left the store, the bells on Bruce's foot chimed sweetly, and people turned to look at Clark and his treasure. Clark's ears burned: he felt foolish and proud and humiliated and aroused all at once.

When they got to their inn room, Bruce pulled the little Zeta Beam tracker out of their bag. "We've got three more days before the Beam comes through. And it looks like it's going to touch down right in the middle of that coliseum," he said, pointing.

"Is it going to take a crowd of Srataanians with us?"

Bruce snorted impatiently--an incongruous sound coming from a man dressed only in a silk-and-fur loincloth and a slave collar, and one that made Clark's blood heat. "Zeta Beams only work on people who've been exposed to the proper radiation beforehand, you know that."

"I'm surprised you were willing to get a collar."

Bruce shrugged at the abrupt topic change, looked out the window. "Less likely to draw unwanted attention that way. Besides," he said, then stopped.

"Besides what?"

Bruce still wasn't looking at him. "I thought, when we got back to Earth, I might melt it down. Make something new of it."

"An ashtray?"

Bruce didn't rise to Clark's light tone. "I was thinking more along the lines of matching rings."

"Oh," Clark said and couldn't think of anything else to say at all.

"Would you mind?"

"It would be a lot prettier as rings." Clark's voice was a bit hoarse; he swallowed hard.

Bruce flashed him a quick smile, gone like lightning, then went to sit down on the bed. "So we've got three days," he said.

"Three days," Clark echoed. "What are your plans?"

Bruce stretched out on the bed, arms above his head, a portrait in seduction. "I'm sure we'll think of _something_ to do to pass the time," he said.

And indeed they did.

**: : :**

The fun came to an abrupt end two days later, when there was a pounding on the door. Clark barely had time to roll out of bed and throw on a robe when the door burst open and five armed guards stomped into the room. The leader unrolled a piece of parchment and read out loud: "For the crime of impersonating an _amri_, for mocking with this pretense the holy name of Dilandra, we sentence you to--"

Bruce was already moving forward, kneeling before the guard, stark naked and totally composed. "He didn't know," Bruce murmured. "The deception is all mine."

The guard seized Bruce by the shoulder, dragged him upright. He glared at Clark. "Is this true?"

Clark bit his lip and forced himself to say the words. "I had no idea," he said, forcing shock and horror into his voice. "Bruce, how could you?"

Bruce met his eyes squarely. "I had to be with you. This was the only way." Clark's heart lurched at the look in his eyes; it was all lies, but beneath it--

"Consider yourself under investigation," growled the guard, glaring at Clark. "The execution is scheduled for tomorrow at sun's zenith, and if we find--"

"--Execution?" Clark felt his face going pale.

"Of course," said the guard. "The price all who wish to cheat the holy Dilandra pay." He started to drag Bruce from the room, but Bruce pulled free from his grip for a second.

"Clark," he said. "I love you."

It was an act for the guards, of course.

Bruce looked at him.

"I love you too," Clark whispered.

The guard gave him a suspicious scowl as they pulled Bruce away. Clark caught a glimpse of Captain Li lurking in the hallway; the door closed on his smile.

The room was very quiet when they were gone, and Clark swallowed hard. Then he saw the Zeta Beam tracker, still partially tucked into the pocket of his uniform. On a sudden hunch, he pulled it out and checked it.

Fifteen minutes after noon the next day.

**: : :**

The coliseum was full of people cheering and drinking beer, looking forward to the execution. Apparently this was one of the few sources of entertainment in Zuuri. Clark fidgeted in his seat under the watchful eye of the guards, who clearly considered him still under suspicion. The sun was a scarlet disc in the roof of the sky, lowering.

They brought Bruce out. He was wearing nothing but a cotton loincloth and his hands were tied behind his back. They had left him his blue steel collar, Clark had no idea why. His head was high, and his eyes found Clark's in the crowd immediately, as if he could have picked Clark out of a million people without effort. He probably could.

He was smiling slightly.

The guard behind him forced him to his knees and another hulking man stepped up with a monstrous scimitar in his hand. The sun glinted crimson off the edge as he raised it. As he stood poised, a woman in midnight-blue robes emblazoned with the five-petaled flower stepped up to address Bruce. "Blasphemer of Dilandra, have you any last words?"

Bruce locked eyes with Clark and spoke directly to him, his voice ringing through the coliseum: "This is for you, my true Master. As is all I do."

As the scimitar came down, he threw off his guard's grasp and dodged, tumbling in the dust. Instantly, the rest of the guards stepped forward with pikes and swords drawn. Clark felt his own fingers gripping his knees almost painfully, even though he knew better: unarmed, half-naked, bound, Bruce was still more than a match for them all.

It was a dance, Clark realized as the crowd gasped, as Bruce's almost-bare body swayed and moved and flashed between the sword-points. Nothing like the dance he'd done on the plains, though even more beautiful. Bruce's true dance, balanced on the knife-edge of death, always a heartbeat away from killing or being killed.

His hands were free now--he tossed the dagger he'd grabbed from a guard aside with disdain, relying on his bare hands. There was a sheen of sweat on his skin; he glowed in the brilliance of the sun, dancing.

The last guard fell.

The crowd gasped as a horn was blown; the injured guards scrambled to get out of the ring as a giant black panther with a few too many legs and sabertoothed fangs bounded into the coliseum, snarling.

Bruce bowed to it as it charged.

The panther and the man dodged and weaved, leaping and whirling. Crimson sprang across Bruce's chest and Clark was standing, moving to leap down and help, struggling against the guards until a spearpoint was placed against his back. Bruce glanced at him, a plea not to distract him further, and Clark saw the cut was long but shallow, seeping blood but not dangerous.

Bruce turned his attention back to the panther; as it charged him again he leapt on its back in a blur of motion, arms locked around its neck. The beast roared and flung itself around, but Bruce held on, throttling it until it slowly sagged to the ground, defeated. Bruce vaulted from its back, leaving it to retreat woozily.

He landed on the sand and dropped into a graceful obeisance, gazing at Clark. The coliseum was totally silent.

And then the applause and the shouting began, a wave that mounted and broke into chaos.

Surrounded by riotous cheers, Clark and Bruce merely looked at each other until the Zeta Beam locked onto them and the world dissolved around them.

**: : :**

Clark staggered as the coliseum re-formed around him, silent and empty now, the stone walls chipped and scarred as if from many years of battles. He gazed wildly at the center of the arena, his heart leaping as he saw Bruce there as well, blood still trickling from the wound on his chest. "Bruce!" Clark jumped from the bleachers to join him--and found himself soaring downward lightly, his brain only dimly processing that the sunlight was yellow once more.

He landed with a jarring _thump_ on the sand next to Bruce--powers still not optimal yet--and threw his arms around him, relief singing in his veins. "We made it!"

Bruce made a neutral sound, looking around. "I don't think we're where we want to be yet. This coliseum isn't in the capital in our time. We've moved, but to where--when?" Despite his dry tone, his arms went around Clark as well, holding him close.

Clark pulled back enough to pull the Zeta beam detector out. He groaned as he read the screen. "The next beam isn't going to come through for...over a month. It will sweep past about three kilometers to the west of this spot--at least it's close." He narrowed his eyes at the detector. "It doesn't have a specific time pinpointed yet, but--"

He didn't get to finish the sentence, as the machine in his hands exploded into fragments of plastic and glass. An arrow thudded into the ground amid a shower of broken bits as Clark and Bruce whirled to meet their attacker.

"Don't move," snarled the man holding the bow and arrow. He was dressed in light leather armor, his coppery hair pulled back into a ponytail. A half-dozen similarly-clad men and women came running up behind him, bows at the ready. Then he caught sight of Bruce's collar, gleaming cobalt-blue in the sunlight, and his eyes widened. He dropped to his knees. "My Lord! Forgive me, I didn't realize!" As Clark and Bruce stared, he turned to the others and hissed, "He wears a Collar of Command!"

With a massive clatter of dropped bows, the group knelt as one before Bruce. "Forgive our presumption, Lord, and spare our worthless lives," intoned the leader of the group. "We did not realize you were a _tal-amri_."

Clark looked at the groveling Srataanians and resisted an urge to mutter, "Oh boy."

**: : :**

"Thank you, Amo, for escorting my fellow _tal-amri_ to me." Lord Garash of Zuuri was a slender man with close-cropped golden hair and muddy brown eyes set just a bit too close together for handsomeness. The ornate collar around his neck was made of gold and studded with opals. He patted the kneeling man on his coppery head, then ignored him entirely; Amo bowed out of the room slowly, keeping his eyes cast down.

Still uncertain what had caused this radical change of fortunes, Clark kept his eyes lowered to the ornate brocade carpet as well. Beside him, he felt Bruce start to say something, but Garesh cut him off. "--No, let me see if I can deduce why you're here."

"Very well," Bruce said, and Clark could hear the slight amusement in his voice.

"Judging from your accent and...clothing choice...you are visiting from the deep South. Here in Zuuri we usually wear more clothing. I shall provide some if you like." Bruce murmured his thanks as Garesh went on, "You must be a third or fourth son, if you have only one personal servant. I assume it would be too much to hope your personal army is arriving behind you?" He didn't wait for Bruce's answer this time. "You seem brave and restless; I assume you have heard of Zuuri's plight and have come to aid us against the approaching foe." He chuckled slightly. "Indeed, our plight is such I would not turn down even the help of only two more men."

"Exactly how bad is it?"

Garesh sighed; Clark heard the clink of glass on glass, wine from a decanter. "It's quite bad. Karos's army has Ujul under siege; it's only a matter of time until they submit. After that, he will certainly march on Zuuri. We have no more than a month, maybe two." He handed Bruce a glass. "Damn him and his Rebellion! The _tal-amri_ have ruled Srataan wisely and well for centuries; How dare he interfere with the natural order of things?"

"But did not the _tal-amri_ start as slaves themselves?" Only Clark could have heard the strain in Bruce's voice as he went out on a limb.

Garesh was silent a moment, and Clark wished he could risk an upward glance. "Ancient history," he finally said. "Did not the glory and passion of the Dark One reveal that the _amri_'s true destiny was not to serve, but to rule?"

"Of course, the Dark One," Bruce said, his voice flat.

"May his memory guide us," murmured Garesh, with a rustle of movement that could have been a bow. Clark heard Bruce's intake of breath and looked up.

Garesh had bowed toward an alcove lit with candles, a piece of art in mosaic set into it. A dark-haired man riding a black panther, head high in triumph. Beyond the dark hair, he didn't look anything like Bruce.

"May his memory guide us," Bruce echoed.

: : :

Clark looked around their room. It was opulent, rich, details picked out with gold leaf. Clark grimaced at the luxury, but had to admit the massive four-poster feather bed looked good after a week on the road or in cheap hotels. A quick scan around the room revealed at least two different spyholes, but no heartbeats behind them. "There's no one around," he said, and a little of the tension went out of Bruce's shoulders.

"I hate time travel," Bruce growled, throwing open the closet. It had already been stocked with a variety of outfits in his size; Bruce grimaced at the array of flashy cloth. "Nothing in black, damn it."

"We changed the past," Clark said as Bruce shimmied out of his loincloth and grabbed a tunic of iridescent blue-green, dark as peacock feathers. "What now?"

Bruce scratched at the dried blood on his chest and grimaced at his fingernails. "Now we take a bath and get ready to go back to dinner with our host."

The marble bathtub was already full of warm water; Bruce poured a dipperful over his head and sighed as he worked soap into his hair. Clark came up behind him and started to massage his scalp, prompting a contented sigh. "So in this time the _amri_ have become _tal-amri_ and are the ruling class."

Bruce nodded, leaning back into Clark's touch. "It looks like it's close to a feudal system. The _tal-amri_ are hereditary lords now, and they own serfs. Armies of serfs. Or sometimes just a few personal servants."

"They've assumed I'm your...personal servant."

Another nod. "Just _how_ personal, I don't know." A soapy hand slipped up Clark's thigh. "Feel free to play it however you like."

Clark couldn't help but smile. "Now it's my turn to make you uncomfortable."

Bruce snorted. "I think you'll find I'm unflappable," he boasted.

Clark dumped the dipper of water over his head and listened to him sputter for a moment before capturing his mouth. "I like a challenge," he whispered into the kiss.

: : :

"I thought you said you liked a challenge?" Bruce taunted only a half hour later. "Chickening out already?"

Clark glared at the rack of sheer, nearly-transparent clothing. "I'm just...having a hard time choosing." He reached in and grabbed a shimmering golden robe, throwing it around himself. To his dismay, it turned out to be woven in shifting patterns of opacity and transparency, so it exposed bits of him in different configurations every time he moved. "Yikes," he muttered.

"I like it," said Bruce, eyeing him from head to toe. "Now you need some jewelry."

"Jewelry?" groaned Clark as Bruce held up a glittering band with a loop of chain attached to it.

"Hold still," said Bruce, and Clark felt the band close gently on the ridge of his ear, the chain swaying below. "And the final touch..."

"Oh no," said Clark. "Come on, _no._"

Bruce just grinned as he swiped his finger into the little pot. It came up glittering with gold. "It's just a little bit of lip gloss and blush, Clark."

"Good grief," Clark said, but he held still as Bruce brushed gloss over his lips and cheeks, his fingers sure and certain. He dabbled his fingers in Clark's hair for a second, then stepped back, examining the final product with a critical eye. Clark rolled his eyes. "How ridiculous do I look?"

Bruce tilted his head, considering. "You look...radiant," he said. Clark made a scoffing noise, and Bruce almost smiled. "You look like a god of the sun, come to earth to dazzle us all." Clark eyed him suspiciously, but Bruce was just gazing at him, a faraway look in his eyes. Clark sneaked a look in the mirror and didn't see anything so special beyond a lot of flashy glitter; Bruce must be in a teasing mood.

Bruce shook himself out of his reverie. "Ready to go to dinner?" When Clark nodded, he swept from the room with his head high, Clark falling into step behind him.

Garesh and two other people wearing the Collars of Command were already sitting at the table; they rose and bowed as Bruce entered the room. They were both younger, a man and a woman. The man was golden-haired like Garesh, with a family resemblance about the mouth. The woman had close-cropped auburn hair and an austere air about her. "My son, Garam, and the Lady Ruu," said Garesh. "Lady Ruu owns a smaller settlement to the west, but she brought her people here when Karos began his march toward Zuuri."

Each of the three _tal-amri_ had a person sitting behind their chair, clearly ready to leap into service; Clark took his place behind Bruce, watching them for cues.

"What will you do in preparation for Karos's attack?" Bruce asked as Garesh's servant poured him a glass of wine and handed it on to Garam's servant.

"Do?" Garesh sipped his wine. "We are hopelessly outnumbered, and there is nowhere to flee to. We shall fight and we shall be defeated." His voice was resigned and cold.

The wine decanter continued to move from servant to servant; when Ruu's retainer handed it to Clark their eyes met and a small, wry smile crossed the other's face for an instant. Clark poured Bruce a cup of wine and Bruce sipped it politely.

Garam leaned forward. "Father, I still think we could--"

Garesh cut him off with a slicing motion of his hand. "We have discussed this, Garam." The conversation was clearly closed; Garam leaned back in his chair, grimacing. He met Ruu's eyes and something flashed between them; Ruu shook her head very slightly. Clark filed as much as possible away for later--Bruce was going to insist on going over every detail to get some grasp on the situation. Stranded here until nearly the date Karos would arrive...it was going to be a challenge.

"Damn him and his rabble of 'free folk,'" Garesh snarled, putting the goblet down with a thump. "Putting ideas in serfs' heads, pointless dreams of _equality_ and _freedom._"

"Razing cities to the ground is not exactly positive progress," Ruu noted. Her voice was low and level.

"Not for the people who get razed," Garam said with a wry twist to his mouth.

Fortunately, the three _tal-amri_ were anxious to discuss the rebel army, and thus didn't push Bruce to give many personal details. When they asked him questions, Bruce sidestepped them neatly, plucking bits of information from their questions to give back to them.

"If I had known they grew such beautiful serfs in the southern mountains, I would have been vacationing there," Garesh said, arching an eyebrow and looking Clark over. "He's really quite magnificent, isn't he, Ruu? Perhaps you can convince Lord Buruus to share him later."

Ruu barely glanced at him as Clark set his jaw and tried not to fidget at the scrutiny. "I find Malak satisfactory to my needs," she said curtly.

"Thank you, Lady," murmured the man behind her, bowing slightly. Ruu met his eyes and smiled briefly, and the look that passed between them was another Clark stored away for later.

"Clark is handsome indeed," Bruce said. "Handsome, skilled, intelligent...and entirely mine." His tone was pointed and Garesh looked crestfallen.

"Ah," their host said. "I'll admit I was hoping to arrange an exchange. Amo is quite talented in all the best ways," he said, waving a hand at the archer who had captured them earlier, unable to see the sneer that briefly distorted his serf's angular face.

"I'm sure Amo is wonderful," Bruce said, "But Clark is mine and mine alone." Clark could hear his heart was beating a little faster, as if he were anxious.

"Oh, you're one of those possessive types," Garesh shrugged. "Well, there's no accounting for tastes."

Clark felt relief wash through him, relief mixed with an odd warmth at the tone of Bruce's voice. It probably shouldn't make him feel like that to have Bruce talk about him as a valuable possession.

The warmth refused to go away as Bruce stroked a hand down his arm; in fact, if anything it flared hotter. "I don't usually like to display him so...openly," Bruce said. "But it seemed rude not to let my hosts admire his beauty." Clark gritted his teeth against an embarrassed blush--and an even more alarming heat that was not going to his face at all. He shifted to stand a little more securely behind Bruce's chair. "You are fortunate to get a glimpse of him. At home I generally kept him cloistered so that only I could gaze upon him."

Garesh looked rapt at the thought and was about to ask another question when a silvery chime rang in another room. The other three servants bowed briefly and left the room; Clark followed their example.

He found himself in a large kitchen, where a handful of cooks was putting together a meal. "Can you believe that lech?" Garesh's servant, Amo, muttered as they waited. "You're lucky your Lord is possessive, Klaak. Trust me, you don't want him in your bed."

Malak looked worried. "He really isn't going to fortify the city? Or even prepare?"

Amo made a harsh sound in his throat; his hands twitched as if he longed to be holding a bow. "He'll cast the city's serfs up against Karos, bathe the town in blood--then sue for peace, hoping to bribe Karos into letting him live. He won't do any fighting. None of _them_ ever do."

"Ruu--I mean, the Lady Ruu--she wants to help in the defense personally." Malak looked slightly appalled at himself for using his Mistress's name casually, but no one remarked on it.

"Lord Bruce will as well," Clark said. "And his help can be valuable indeed."

Amo shook his head, his coppery ponytail swishing. "Listen to you, sticking up for them. I'll help fight because I love this city, but I won't be sacrificing my body for Garesh. And more serfs than you think will be crossing the river at night to join Karos's army, I'll wager."

Malak looked grave. "I'm certain you're right," he said.

The cooks put the food in front of them and they picked up the heaping platters. Amo grimaced. "All this food for them. It's a damn waste," he said. Clearing his throat, he spat neatly into Garesh's gravy bowl, to appreciative laughter from the kitchen staff. "A little present for my Lord," he grinned as they left with the food.

: : :

Bruce's shoulders sagged as the door to their room closed behind them. He started to say something, then met Clark's eyes, and his own went wary at what they saw there. Clark flickered a quick glance toward one of the spyholes, knowing Bruce would catch it and understand the implication: behind the wall, Clark could hear soft breathing.

"The Lord Garesh is both kind and wise," he murmured, to make clear just whose heartbeat he heard nearby.

"He is indeed." Bruce raised his arms slightly. "Divest me of my outer garments, my beauty." As Clark bent to slowly strip the iridescent green brocade from him, Bruce's hand slid up his arm, the fingers signing: _Go slowly. Stall. Don't worry._ Bruce's smile went just a touch mischievous as Clark glanced up from the cloth-covered buttons. "So are you wishing you were in Garesh's bed right now?" His voice was rough, but his eyes--where Garesh couldn't see them--were twinkling.

Clark allowed his honest horror to tint his voice. "My precious Lord and Master! You know I belong only to you." He drew the heavy brocade over Bruce's head, his hands dancing lightly across the thin raw silk covering Bruce's back: _Why not put on a show for the old goat?_

Bruce turned to stare at Clark, his eyes for a moment honestly wide. He narrowed them with an apparent effort. "Do remember that, my jewel." He touched Clark's cheek: _Don't be perverse. I'm trying to protect you here._

Clark gestured for Bruce to sit down on the bed so he could draw off his boots. On Bruce's instep, he signed lightly: _I can take care of myself. We're more than a match for some lech._

Bruce's fingers drummed in his hair with a touch of annoyance: _Why are you always so stubborn?_

_Why are you bickering with me instead of making out with me?_ Clark reached up to unbuckle Bruce's pants, his fingers flicking over Bruce's abdomen. _Let's show him what he's missing. Nothing too intimate--_ A flick of fingers under the waistband and Bruce dragged in a sudden breath, _\--But why not give him an eyeful?_

Bruce shook his head slowly, staring down at Clark's deferential posture. "You are...amazing," he said.

Clark cast his eyes down in polite deference--and so he didn't have to meet Bruce's smoldering gaze. "You know I am your helpless thrall in all things, body and soul." He gently tugged down Bruce's pants, leaving him dressed only in a light silk undertunic and leggings.

Bruce ran a hand through his hair and flopped backward himself on the bed. The sigh of contentment as the feathery blankets settled around him was entirely unfeigned. "Come here," he said, beckoning.

Clark sat down on the bed. "What does my Master require of me?"

"Your body and soul, of course," murmured Bruce. He grasped Clark's hand and drew him down beside him, pressing a kiss onto his forehead. "I have your body here," he said, running a hand down the light cloth covering Clark's ribcage to his hip. "But tonight I want you to demonstrate that I have your soul as well."

"I--" Clark swallowed hard. Bruce's hand was warm on his hip, the fingers resting lightly on the jut of his hipbone. Nowhere near any truly sensitive area, and yet somehow the intimacy of that confident touch sent warmth running through Clark's body. He shifted slightly, and the thick, soft mattress pushed him against Bruce from collarbone to toes in a long, luxurious caress. Clark felt his body stirring into life, nudging against layers of silk, a sweet friction he tried to ignore. "I'll do anything you ask me, Lord. How can I prove my soul is yours?"

"Tell me." Bruce's lips were at the base of his throat now, which meant Clark's swiftly hardening erection was up tight against Bruce's stomach. Clark resisted the urge to tilt his hips into the firm muscled planes. "I want you you to tell me." A flicker of tongue into the groove of his collarbone and Clark groaned aloud. "With words," Bruce clarified, wriggling slightly against Clark to make his point. "Tell me how much you're mine." Bruce's voice was husky and warm, and Clark felt a lazy spiral of desire unwinding in him, almost hypnotically.

"I'm yours, Lord," he whispered. "Yours." His erection jolted, surprisingly demanding, at the words, and Clark lost himself for a moment in a haze of arousal. A sharp nip at the skin of his neck jarred him: _As long as I'm talking he won't have to do anything more...intimate with Garesh watching,_ he reminded himself. _Keep talking._

"I've wanted to be yours since the moment I saw you." He remembered it, bright behind his heavy eyelids: the shock of desire, involuntary and undeniable, a lust that had only grown sweeter and deeper as he came to know the man behind the cowl.

"Yes," groaned Bruce into his neck. "I knew. I had to have you someday. Had to--" His hand tightened in the soft cloth on Clark's hip, drawing it more tightly against heated flesh, and Clark felt the spiral of lust winding through him even stronger. "--Had to take you. Make you mine."

He was acting, of course. Acting for their audience. Clark knew that, but the thought was small and far away somehow, and the pleasure at the words was intensely real. "Anything you want from me is yours, my Lord," he whispered. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. Bruce's hands were drawing lazy patterns on his sides and hips that seemed to be keeping him from thinking very clearly. What was a slave supposed to say here? He couldn't seem to focus his thoughts. "I just want to make you happy." That sounded right. "To give my body to you and you alone."

"I want your soul. I want your heart." Bruce's voice was muffled against his skin, oddly fierce.

"Yours. All yours."

"Yes," hissed Bruce, and the triumph in his voice made the lust in Clark turn sharp and rich, difficult to control at all. "I know." He kissed Clark, a very long kiss, his hands roaming over Clark's back, and Clark relaxed into the feeling, letting his body's demands fade to a dim clamor, merely resting in the kiss and holding his lover. They stayed like that for a long time, hovering in delight, until Clark heard nearly-silent footsteps moving away from the spyhole. Apparently Garesh had gotten tired of waiting for them to get to the hardcore entertainment.

Clark wasn't sure if Bruce had heard the quiet footfalls. He opened his mouth to say something...and then closed it again. "My Lord's caresses are sweet," he murmured instead. "I am truly blessed to belong to him."

Bruce pulled back and stared at him, and Clark could see in his eyes he had heard their observer depart too. Whatever he saw in Clark's face made the surprise in his fade to a sharp, predatory look. "Tell me again," he said, one hand tightening slightly in Clark's hair. "I want to hear it again. Tell me you're mine."

"Body and soul," Clark whispered.

Bruce's voice was husky, nearly shaking. "Show me."

Clark showed him.

**: : :**

"I need a haircut," Clark complained, brushing back the locks that had started to tumble over his collar after more than a month away from Earth.

"Serfs aren't allowed to have short hair," Bruce noted, staring out at the archers training in the courtyard. He grimaced. "They're not going to be ready."

"They'll be as ready as they can be." With only days before Karos arrived with his army, Clark knew better than to try and reassure Bruce. It only made him snappish and they both knew the reassurances were empty.

There was a good chance the Zeta Beam would sweep through just before the battle. Or just after. Or maybe during. Not for the first time, Clark cursed the loss of the detector that would have let them be more precise.

"If all else fails," he had murmured to Bruce weeks ago, "I can prevent any bloodshed. A fully-powered Kryptonian--"

"--We've already meddled in Srataanian history once," Bruce had responded. "We're trying to keep it to a minimum here. We don't need you to become a god."

"But I will do something, if it's necessary to prevent a slaughter."

Bruce had frowned, but merely said, "Of course."

Lady Ruu was pacing the parapet, looking down upon the drilling serfs. Her servant, Malak, walked beside her. Lately he hadn't been bothering to keep the respectful three paces behind her. They looked at each other and Clark could see the worry flashing between them.

"They're not going to be ready," Ruu said as the pair drew closer.

"You've trained them as best you can in the bow, and Clark and I in hand-to-hand combat."

"Not enough," she said, gritting her teeth. "They'll be massacred, and for what? To defend a class of lords which no longer does anything but sit on their padded arses and eat peeled grapes. Karos is right--the _tal-amri_ are a blight on society and must be eliminated."

Clark saw Bruce's eyebrow shoot upward; it was the most blunt Ruu had been about the slavery system since they arrived. "But not through bloodshed," he said.

"I would prefer it not be by the blood of these brave people, no." Her lips quirked in a sad, bitter smile. "Or my own."

"There must be some other way. There's always another way."

Malak was frowning. He started to speak, then caught himself. "Permission to speak, Mistress?" Ruu nodded and he went on: "Karos's army will encamp on the other side of the river before their assault," he said, gesturing toward the wide river with its shallow ford. "If the river were to flood..."

"...It would stall them, give us more time. Maybe convince them to turn away." Ruu nodded. "But the rainy season is months away. We can't--"

"--We can." Garem, Garesh's son, stepped from a shadowed doorway. "There's an old dam up in the mountains. My father constructed it a decade ago. If it were to give way the river would be unfordable." His eyes flicked to each person in turn. "I can show you the way."

Bruce nodded slowly. "How long a trip is it?"

Garem frowned. "A few days."

Bruce looked at Ruu. "You know the people here better than I do. Pick a team and go. Clark and I will stall the army."

Her auburn eyebrows rose into her hair. "Stall?"

"We'll find a way."

She gave both of them a long, assessing look. "Maybe you will, at that." The three of them took off at a lope to assemble a group.

"Stall?" Clark asked when they were out of earshot.

"We bluff. We're good at that. And we hope the Zeta Beam doesn't come through too early." Bruce took Clark's arm. "Let's hit the library and find some archaic laws we can use against Karos."

The other serfs looked at them as they left arm-in-arm, but Bruce paid them no attention at all.

: : :

"All right," said Clark, "Your plan is working perfectly." He shifted his grip on his dagger and eyed the long line of rag-tag soldiers massed before them.

"Flawlessly," Bruce retorted over his shoulder. They were back-to-back on the far side of the still-unflooded river, the city walls depressingly distant. "As Zuuri's champions, we have to be given the right to confront the enemy champion before the army attack the city."

"You do realize they're deciding whether to just attack us _en masse,_" Clark muttered, listening to the growl of conversations from the horde. "Or fill us full of arrows."

"Of course."

"What's your plan if they try it?"

Clark felt Bruce's shoulder-blades press against his just a little more snugly. "We'll wing it."

"Nifty."

Bruce's body shook slightly against his in a quiet chuckle. "Have a little faith, Clark."

Clark was going to respond with something scathing--he just wasn't sure what yet--when the crowd parted to reveal a man striding toward them across the plain. He was short, and wasn't dressed in any finery, just homespun robes and boiled leather armor, but Clark could sense the confidence and power emanating from him. Karos, leader of the Serf Rebellion.

Karos stopped well short of the pair, but Clark could sense his keen regard. "Who are you and why do you face me?"

Clark recited the ritual words they'd found in the library: "We stand between you and the city and challenge you to combat us, the champions of that city."

Karos's eyes flicked to Bruce's neck and the glimmering blue metal collar, then back to Clark. "Your _tal-amri_ allows you to speak for him? An unusual man." He took a step forward. "And he risks his life with yours. Truly, he is like no other _tal-amri_ I have ever met."

"There are more than you might think," Clark said, thinking of Ruu and Garem in the mountains, struggling together to break the dam and save the city.

Karos's mouth was set in a hard line. "Then why do you oppose us?" A low rumble, angry and solid, was rising from the mass of people behind him, and Clark eyed them anxiously. He couldn't keep Bruce safe if they attacked, not unless he revealed his powers...

There was a sharp motion behind him as Bruce reached up and wrenched off the shining blue Collar of Command. He threw it into the field between him and the rebel leader, and the rumble changed to a murmur, full of shock. "We do not oppose your goal. We do stand between you and the city," Bruce called into the space between them. "But we stand together today not as a master and slave, but as equals. Back to back, side by side, sharing in all fates and all things. There is no mastery in friendship, and no slavery in love." He raised his voice to a shout. "We stand here together to say this!"

Clark picked up his cue as Bruce fell silent. "Today I fight not for the glory of a _tal-amri_, but for the honor of our friendship. I would give anything for him--and he for me. And we both--" his words rang out across the plain, "--we both would give anything to preserve the lives of the innocent!"

He had bought them some extra time; Karos stepped back to confer with his generals, and the crowd stared in astonishment at Bruce and Clark, alone on the plain together.

And then Clark heard it, far off: the rushing of water. "They did it," he murmured to Bruce. "The dam is broken."

He could _feel_ Bruce's fierce smile in his voice. "We've bought the city some time. Maybe a lot of it."

"You do realize, of course, that we're about to be stranded on this side of the river with a hostile army?"

"Then we'd better hope that Zeta Beam comes through very, very soon."

People in the army were pointing toward the mountains, their faces slack with shock. Karos looked torn between fury and admiration. Clark looked over and saw the wall of churning, muddy water coming down from the crags, rushing to flood the fords. There were cheers from the walls of the city, and growing roar of anger from the massed army. "Now would be nice," he muttered, gripping his quarterstaff tighter.

"This was all a trick!" howled Karos. "A ruse! And now you shall face our steel!"

Clark felt a smile tug at his lips, triumphant, as he gazed at the rank on rank of archers and spears. His voice carried over the growing sound of rushing water. "Steel can break the chains of slavery, Karos. But nothing can destroy the bonds of friendship."

"We shall see about that," Karos growled across the plain, his voice gone cold and determined. He barked a command and the air was filled with a storm of arrows, arching toward them.

The world fell away from them as Clark braced himself to shield Bruce.

It re-assembled itself around them into a suburb, alien but clearly modern. Srataanians who could be Ruu and Malak's descendents gaped at them as they materialized. Bruce stepped forward, shaking off disorientation. "We are Superman and Batman, sent here to negotiate a treaty between Srataan and Rann. Where are the talks being held?"

There was a long moment in which Clark began to worry they still weren't in the right place or time, but then a woman in a stall draped with bright cloth pointed down the street. "The Great Hall," she said. "They began fifteen minutes ago."

"Damn," said Bruce. He tossed a coin to the woman, whose eyes widened in amazement at the ancient stamp, and grabbed a length of black cloth to use as a makeshift mask. "We'd better hurry."

They did.

: : :

Hours later they were sitting at a banquet table, their clothes hastily changed for something more appropriate for the time, being served something very similar to a vegetable dish Clark had come to love during their months on the planet. The opening talks had gone surprisingly smoothly--but then, Clark and Bruce had an advantage now. Bruce knew when the lead Srataanian tilted his head and squinted, that was a common nonverbal way of expressing cautious interest. Clark knew that an allusion to "the time of storm" was a reference to the myth in which Dilandra reshaped the world, and could play upon those themes to good effect. All in all, Clark had to conclude, their months stranded in the past had prepared them well for the talks.

"At least we managed to keep from changing the past too much the second time," he whispered to Bruce as a musician set up some kind of massive harp with a multitude of strings.

The crowd hushed as the harpist ran a hand across the strings, a sweet glimmer of music running through the hall. He smiled at Clark and Bruce. "Welcome to Srataan, honored Batman and Superman. Tonight I shall play for you the greatest song of our people, the _Rubaiyat of Freedom._ It tells the story of how the sin of slavery was finally abolished from our world and equality came to rule our land." He struck the strings again and raised his voice:

_The city stood silent in fear and amaze  
Before the great army come hither to raze  
Its walls and its turrets, then sentence to die  
Each person within, in the perilous blaze._

But then from the city, their heads held up high  
Came forth two strong men--fair of form, blue of eye  
Together they stood back to back on the field  
To give the cruel army courageous reply.

As equals they waited, refusing to yield  
And all gazed in wonder at what they revealed  
As friends and as comrades they stood, bright and true--  
Their love for each other shone out, unconcealed.

Clark felt his ears turning red with embarrassment as the _Rubaiyat_ continued, extolling the grace and mercy of the heroes, how they had shown the world a vision of true equality and purest love before being assumed bodily to heaven before the eyes of all the peoples. As the singer launched into an entirely mythical account of their births and youth together, Clark closed his eyes and prayed for it to end soon.

There were eighty-eight stanzas--he counted--each more ludicrous than the last. But when Bruce's hand found his under the table, tracing laughter into his palm as the singer warbled:

_Their love was not conquered by warfare or years  
Vaster than empires, stronger than spears  
Their bond it was deathless, their friendship complete  
Together forever, through joy and through tears._

\--he decided he didn't mind listening to it _so_ much, as long as Bruce's strong fingers stayed entwined with his.


End file.
